


Be My Baby Now

by Anonymous_ID



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Cock Worship, Consensual Underage Sex, Cunnilingus, Dildos, Dry Orgasm, Exhibitionism, F/M, Het, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Multi, Nipple Licking, Offstage wincest, Pegging, Size Difference, Size Kink, Underage Kissing, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-08-28 04:31:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16716631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_ID/pseuds/Anonymous_ID
Summary: For an old Supernatural Kink Meme prompt: Dean is at someone's house for a one-night stand. They're having a good time, really going at it in bed when the son or daughter (3-7 years old please) comes into the room. Dean doesn't notice the kid at first, but then they're at the bedside introducing themselves to Dean, excited because they're really social and interactive.The kid thinks nothing of it, and neither does the parent, but Dean's a little freaked out and stops what he's doing, staying inside his partner or letting them stay inside him while he tries to talk to the kid and act like they're not fucking. Eventually the kid wants to climb up onto the bed and keep talking, even becomes interested in what they're doing and asks questions, wants to touch, etc... (original prompt: https://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/128279.html?page=3#comments)





	1. Chapter 1

For no reason Dean can figure, the dive bar right off campus is holding some sort of retro-theme night: girls in poodle-skirts and honest-to-God jukebox playing The Ronettes.  Still, he'd gone in hoping for a hot Midwestern co-ed, and ends up with a MILF-y adjunct professor, so there's nothing to complain about.  He and the professor had noticed each other instantly.  After all, they're probably the oldest people in the bar by at least five years.  She gives him an ironic little wave when their eyes meet across the crowd of sorority girls and their frat-boy dates.   Dean keeps an eye on her, peripherally, and when he sees her head back to the bar for a refill, he swallows the last of his beer and follows.  It’s busy and loud—the college dives always are—so there’s a wait for the bartender’s attention, an opportunity to chat over the ancient Top 40 hits playing in the background ( _""Be my baby..." "Now that I can dance..." "...why must I be a teenager in love?"_ ). 

Turns out Lisa is a psych professor at the local land-grant college, so Dean spins a tale about researching Midwestern ghost stories.  “Folklore,” he calls it, because that sounds like a college-y kind of word.  He doesn’t tell her that he sometimes goes into these college bars because, after a few beers, he can close his eyes and listen to the crappy music and the click of the pool balls and the collegiate chatter and imagine Sam doing the same thing in far-away California. 

Dean mentions witch-burnings (in passing, like you do) and she says some smart things about misogynistic violence and crowd mentality.  More than just a pretty face, though she’s got caramel-colored skin and dark hair and is the absolute opposite of that California blonde Sam is seeing.  Dean offers to buy her drink and she laughs, low and rich, and says she’ll buy his, instead: “I remember the days of graduate stipends.”

“Always wanted a sugar mama,” Dean says, and he thinks he’s joking until he sees something like interest flare in her eyes. 

  
“Well, then, you came to the right gin joint,” she says.  They end up at a tall table crammed into the dim corner opposite the jukebox.  The table is free only because the space is too narrow to even fit stools, so they stand.  Dean keeps his back to the wall. 

“Aren’t professors supposed to drink—what’s it…claret?”  Dean asks, reaching to study the label on her IPA, so that he can accidentally-on-purpose brush her fingers.  “Or port?”

“Not in Indiana,” Lisa laughs again.  “And not on an adjunct’s salary.”  Her fingers, cold with condensation, twine over his, like she knows just what game he’s playing.

Not only does she know it, but she’s ready to up the ante.  She snags his bottle with a free hand, takes a swig. He can taste it when he leans over and kisses her. She opens right up for him, her arms coming up to drape over his shoulders so he can feel the warm swell of her tits when she breathes.  This is so much better than the college cock-tease Dean had expected that he indulges himself for longer than he should, considering that the bar is probably full of her students.

  
“Should we be doing this?”  he asks finally, leaving a quick apologetic kiss at the V of her silky, plum-colored button-down, the one that had first caught his eye because it’s exactly what a slutty professor _should_ wear. Lisa looks at him, shrewdly, seriously, despite her faintly flushed cheeks.   

“Do you _want_ to do this?” she asks.

“I just mean…you know, you’re a professor and…”  Dean isn’t quite sure what to say.  She’s looking at him analytically, like she’s trying to make up her mind about him, and Dean has a moment of sympathy for any students who think her class is an easy A. 

Then she laughs again and, Jesus, Dean could get used to that velvety laugh.  “Are you trying to…protect my reputation?”

That makes Dean flush, the teasing way she makes it sound like _he’s_ the square.  “No!  I just. Well.” She's the one who's gonna have to live in this town long after he hits the road.

“No, no, that's...uhm, sweet," Lisa says.  "Are you planning to take any classes in the psych department?”

“Uh. No?”

Lisa smiles.  “So I fail to see any conflict of interest.  And as for my reputation…”  She leans up on her tiptoes, her whole curvy body pressed against his so she can whisper into his ear, “Too late to save that.” Then she moves her mouth an inch further south and licks along the tendon of his neck ‘til she reaches the collar of his shirt. She kisses him there, sucking where his throat joins his shoulder so Dean can feel the blood rising to the surface of his skin, throbbing hot. Fuck, a hickey in a college bar.  And he never even took the SATs.

“I should probably be getting home, though,” Lisa smooths her blouse.  “I just stopped in for a round after the world’s _longest_ faculty meeting, but my mom babysits and she bitches if I’m too late.”  That wicked smile again.  “Thanks for helping me sober up.”

The phrase _my mom babysits_ should make Dean wilt immediately, but it doesn’t.  He understands now how Lisa is both fine-boned and rounded, small enough that he mistook her for a college student at first, but with nice hips and those great tits he can sense under the plum blouse.  It’s strangely arousing, thinking that this beer-drinking woman who buys drinks for strange men, who kisses the way Lisa does, is also someone’s mom.

Lisa tucks her dark hair behind her ear and reaches down for her bag—a sensible messenger bag that is probably full of student essays and PTA notices, but who knows what else.  She gives him a peck on the cheek that is almost chaste and then, just when she’s about to step out of Dean’s life and into the realm of masturbation fodder, she glances over her shoulder.  “Unless you want to come with?”

***

Dean follows Lisa’s boring Subaru as she pulls out of the bar parking lot (“Fuck,” she’d said when she’d seen the Impala, “I want you to do me in the backseat of _that.”_ ).  In ten minutes, they’re in a nondescript suburb of tiny ranch houses, widely spaced with generous, Mid-western yards.  There really _isn't_ anywhere else to drink in this college town; pretty soon, there aren’t even _streetlights_.  He parks along the dark curb when she pulls into the driveway of a bungalow.  The porch light is on and he can see her fumbling in her bag for her keys, just another working mom coming home.  A single mom; he’d checked her ring finger.   Dean’s not overly scrupulous—Lisa has very clearly made up her own mind about bringing him home—but he’s not a home-wrecker either.  Not when there are kids.

He watches as she goes inside and, a few minutes later, a dumpy lady leaves, driving an even more boring station wagon.  The taillights are just disappearing when he hears a knock on the window.  It’s Lisa.  She’s got a shiny foil packet in one hand, a condom.  And in the other—sweet Jesus—a blinking baby monitor. 

That wicked smile again.  “So.  I wasn’t joking about the backseat.“  And Dean has always been a sucker for anyone who appreciates his car.

Dean doesn’t fuck her in the back of the Impala.  But he does escort her to sit on the wide leather seat, her sensible pumps in a gutter fully of dry autumn leaves.  And then he kneels.  He works her pencil skirt up by inches and she laughs at the delighted look on his face when he realizes she’s wearing stockings, not pantyhose.

“Do you always dress like this for faculty meetings?  Or were you at the Thirsty Turtle hoping to get lucky?” he teases, thumbs tracing the tender skin of her thighs above the stocking-tops.

And Lisa smirks like the cat who got the cream.  “What can I say?  I’m a lucky lady.”

She talks a good game, but she also moans, throaty and needing, when he mouths his way up her thigh, twitches aside the crotch of her panties, and licks into her cunt.  It’s nice to be appreciated, Dean thinks.

She’s slick and salty and Dean eats her out _thoroughly_ , until her hips are bucking up from the Impala’s seat, until her nails are scraping through his crewcut, holding him where she needs him.  And she knows just where that is, angling Dean’s head gently, murmuring, “oh—yes, there.  Good boy.”  Another advantage over the shy college girl: she knows what she wants.

She comes quietly, a few low whimpers.  The hand that had been fisted in his flannel shirt disappears and he suspects she’s trying to stifle her own noises.  When he finally pulls back, he can feel her slick all over his face, drying in the chilly autumn air.   Lisa leans down and kisses him anyway, long and messy.  “Walk me home?” she whispers.

He does, trailing her to the door and then pressing her up against it once they are inside.  His teeth close on the rim of her ear when she shoves her hand down his jeans.  He didn’t mean to bite—it’s just, fuck, she’s already got his balls in her palm, fondling—but he notices that she arches under him.  She likes it.

“Mmnn,” she whimpers. “Bedroom’s down the hall,” and she gives his nuts a final squeeze before kicking off her heels and heading in that direction.  Dean is vaguely aware of walking through a living room, passing a kitchen.  It doesn’t really hit him until he gets to the bedroom: she’s not a college girl.  She’s not going to end up crying to him about her douche of a high-school boyfriend; she’s not going to expect to introduce him to her friends over breakfast in the dining hall.  No roommates, no sock on the door, no cramming himself into an extra-long twin bed in some dorm.  No, Lisa has a proper bed, queen-sized, with nice-quality sheets and none of those stupid throw pillows girls always bring to college because some catalog tells them to.  There’s just one bedside table, piled high with books, and it has a drawer.  Dean can’t help but wonder what she keeps there: single mom, boring college town, what kind of sextoys can you buy on a professor’s salary?

Lisa shimmies out of her pencil skirt, quick and non-nonsense.  A college kid would leave it balled up on the floor ‘til laundry day, but Lisa drapes it over the chair at the desk in corner. At some point in their bar chat, she'd mentioned teaching yoga classes at the college health center, and Dean believes it: she’s got a great ass to go with those child-bearing hips.  Dean’s an equal-opportunity kind of guy, doesn’t really have a type, per se.  But damn if he can't _feel_ his cock chub up at the realization that he’s about to fuck someone’s _mom_.  He doesn’t know why that idea makes him so eager.  No doubt a psych professor would have plenty of theories: abandoned child, Oedipus shit, no mother-figure during puberty, whatever.  Dean just wants that experienced body (softened curve of her belly, maybe a few stretch marks; those succulent tits).  And he wants it as soon as possible .

Lisa tugs on his flannel shirt. “Off,” she says, like there’s no question that he’ll obey.  And he does, but she she reaches for her own buttons, Dean intercepts her hands.  “Don’t,” he says, surprised by how rough his voice is, “Leave it on.”

“Yeah?”  Lisa smirks at him, and then reaches under the red-purple silk of her blouse and does some sort of ninja move that gets her bra off without undoing any buttons. It’s sensible black and must have some serious elastic because Lisa's not small.  Dean is never sure what happens to it because he is transfixed by the heft of her breasts shifting under the thin fabric.  Her nipples pucker immediately, like Dean’s gaze is a cool breeze.  Dean could swear he feels the same breeze, raising goosebumps on his bare arms in the wake of Lisa’s hands; she strokes up over his bicep and the next thing he knows, her fingers are on the nape of his neck, pulling him down as she arches up.

“C’mon,” she breathes, teasing. “Know you wanna.”

She shivers when his breath dampens the fabric of her blouse.  Soon, it is molded to the curve of her breast while Dean tentatively sucks her nipple.  “Yeah, that’s right.  So good, baby boy,”  Lisa croons.  She keeps one hand on the back of his neck, rubbing soothing circles.  The other undoes his belt, dips into his boxers, jacks him firmly until he has to squirm away from her hand.

“Too much?” and fuck if that concerned-mom tone doesn’t make Dean throb. 

“Too much for what?” Dean growls and Lisa laughs at his tough guy tone and then tries to hush herself by pressing her face to his shoulder.

Dean smiles into her sweet smelling hair. He’s always been able to laugh at himself in bed.

He lays down on her fancy bed, idly palming his cock while she shimmies out of her panties and half-slip, pads over to open the blinds.  No streetlights, but some sort of security light in the backyard that filters in to illuminate the bedroom.  Then she walks backs, hips swaying, unbuttoning her blouse as she goes. She pushes his left knee gently 'til he’s open enough for her to lay between his legs, propped up on her elbows.  The posture does _amazing_ things for her big, pendulous breasts. She mouths the head of his cock, lets him thread his hands through her dark hair and takes him deeper.  It’s—it’s _really good_.  Dean’s about to say so when the hand that’s cupping his balls shifts and he feels her finger touch his hole. 

Huh.  Dean tenses involuntarily, forces himself to relax. He hasn’t done anything like that in a while—hadn’t planned on it tonight, though you can never tell with college bars. Dean considers: he’s not necessarily _opposed_ to the idea.  So he shifts his feet on the sheets, spreads his legs a little wider.  He can feel Lisa smile around his cock, take him extra deep as a reward. 

He tugs her hair: no sensible Mom-cut here.  She reads him correctly and she pulls off.  Kisses his bare thigh in apology, after all she's already come once. Lisa straddles him, pussy wet on his belly, aligns their bodies so she can kiss him.  

“Me first, then you, ‘kay, baby?”  Lisa stretches over his head to reach the bedside table, accidentally-on-purpose muffling Dean with a faceful of tit.  Dean doesn’t even have to turn his head to capture a nipple.  Lisa’s thighs tighten around his waist when he starts to suckle.  He's always been a breast-man, but this is ridiculous:  there's just something about her husky voice calling him _baby_.

They both sigh when she leans back, pulling herself from his mouth with a pop.  She holds up a foil packet: “One kid is plenty for me.”

Dean nods and she’s got the condom on so quickly he barely has to breathe deeply to resist her hands.

“Ready?” Dean breathes into her mouth.

“Mmmnn, _big_ boy,” Lisa moans appreciatively, easing down.  Her breath hitches the first time Dean tries to move, so he makes himself slow down, grip the softness of her hips, help her take him all the way. Fuck.  She’s so wet and soft; when she sits up and circles her hips her tits bounce.  She leans over him, grinds him deeper, whispers, “Just FYI, I like it harder.”

And she does.  Dean has learned to be careful with college girls—who only _think_ they like it hard.  She rides him like she knows what she’s doing. And she definitely knows what she likes  (“Faster—yes, like that.  Deep—oh, _oh!_ Baby...”). 

Lisa comes again, deep and pulsing, so Dean figures it is his turn.  He flips her onto her back, hitches her long legs onto his shoulders.  She's still wearing those goddamn stockings. Her long, dark hair is fanned out on the bed, a dreamy smile on her face. She bends easily—must be all that yoga—and then Dean is somehow even deeper, pounding into her, vaguely aware of her hands on his ass, pulling him in while she whispers filth into his ear.  

That's where they are—locked together, running with sweat, Dean's face pressed into Lisa's breast, his orgasm tingling its way up from his toes—when he feels the breath of cool air as the door swings open.  Dean turns his head and sees the small figure outlined against the darkness of the hallway.

“Uhm...Mama?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the (nonspecified) underage portion of the story. No force, but marked non-con due to the age of the fictional participants. Be warned!

 “Baby,” Lisa groans, and this time she is _not_ talking to Dean.  “What did we say about knocking on doors?”

“That it’s a good thing ‘cause of privacy?” The little voice says, even as its owner walks across the bedroom.  A boy, Dean realizes, as he crosses a patch of light.  And then he is close enough that Dean can make out the pattern of footballs on his pajamas. 

“Hi, I’m Ben. What’s your name?” the boy says, in his best polite company manners.

Dean literally would not survive in his line of business if he didn’t have nerves of steel and for a brief moment he thinks he can still carry this off.  Who knows how much the kid saw, standing in the doorway. But also, he can’t be more than, what? Ten? Twelve? Dean’s not good at ages, but surely the kid is too young to know what he was watching.

“Dean,” he manages to say, trying to pull the sheet over his ass without moving off Lisa.  “I’m, uh, Dean.” His traitorous dick hasn’t realized that this is mission-abort so his breath catches when Lisa casually wraps her legs around his waist.

“Are you one of Mama’s friends?”

Mama’s _friends_?  _One_ of?  How often does Lisa do this, bring horny strangers home for a quick fuck? Dean should feel used—Sammy would say _objectified_.  But he’s never had Sam’s vocabulary or Sam’s belief that there is just one person for each of us.  Dean’s lifestyle means he has to find affection wherever he can get it.  His sexual preference is basically “open for business”: as long as everyone is having fun…well, nothing lasts forever, anyway. 

Lisa shifts under him, likeshe can feel his arousal at being one of many.  “You and Dean can talk in the morning, honey.  Now it’s time for—”

Before she can say ‘bed,’ Dean feels her reach out to brush Ben’s sleep ruffled hair.  He tries to cover her (“Wait!”), but just ends up cupping her heavy breast as she turns. Lisa and Ben both look at him like he’s lost his mind.

Lisa’s warm laugh feels even more incredible when Dean is inside her. “Don’t worry,” she says, kissing him fondly, “Nothing Benjie hasn’t seen before.  He breast-fed ‘til he was, like, four. Sometimes he still—”

“Mo-om,”  Ben interrupts, like _he_ has any right to be embarrassed when it’s Dean who is bare-assed.

Lisa is smiling as she turns her attention back to Dean, kisses him deeper. Her tongue is almost enough to distract him…but not quite.  She can sense it. Her hand comes up to hold his on her breast, giving it a little squeeze. Her other hand presses flat on the small of his back, keeping him inside her. “Seriously.  We’re a very. Uhm… _open_ family.  Nothing he hasn’t seen before.”

From inside the kiss, Dean feels the mattress shift.  Did Ben just….?  Dean tries to turn his head, but Lisa has his bottom lip between her teeth and she’s starting to clench all her internal muscles around him.  She’s throbbing exquisitely, and so wet he can practically hear her. “C’mon,” she pleads and Dean never could resist a woman begging.  Lisa’s got both arms around his neck, her legs pulling him in.  Fuck if she isn’t going to come again.  Dean can _feel_ her starting to pulse around him.  He’s been holding off for so long…he can’t…

“Yeeah, c’mon, baby….”

Dean can’t stop his pistoning hips, not when Lisa’s arching up to meet him.  She’s guiding him, one hand on the nape of his neck, and he just goes with it, not even opening his eyes when he feels her tight nipple against his lips.  Just opening his mouth and letting her fill him as he fills her.

“See? Dean likes ‘em, too,” she whispers. And her tits are, admittedly, phenomenal.  But hearing her mention them so casually, to her son, in bed, is what really undoes Dean.  His orgasm rolls right up from his toes and pleasure swamps them both.

“You’re _noisy_ ,” the little voice complains. Dean is still swimming to the surface—hips rutting sporadically into Lisa’s cunt, mindlessly mouthing her tit, feeling her shudder each time the two actions coincide—when he hears the reply.

“Sorry, baby,” Lisa sounds blissed out, not sorry at all. “You ‘member—ah, yeah! Dean!—uh, ‘ member what I said?” Lisa nuzzles Dean’s shoulder even as she’s talking to Ben.

“That it’s just ‘cause you’re happy?”

“Mmmhmm.  Dean just made Mama _very_ happy…”

The object of the conversation finally manages to raise his head.  Now that the orgasm is ebbing he’s starting to feel a little awkward.  But just a little.  He recognizes that he’s so relaxed and warm he’s not really thinking straight, but on the other hand, it’s clearly not the first time Ben has been exposed to this.  And given the way Lisa is all but purring, Dean supposes there are worse relationship examples out there.  His few worthless abstinence-heavy sex ed classes and some stolen Playboys had completely failed to prepare him for his barely-remembered first time (hasty, shameful, backroom of a pool hall).  He'd made sure Sam knew better; is that so different from what Lisa is doing for Ben?

Dean finally, reluctantly convinces himself to pull out.  He kind of eases over, sliding onto his front (no need to let the kid see too many more details).  He has to bite his lip to keep from whimpering at the loss of contact.  _Fuck,_ he’d needed to get laid, and Lisa had been so warm, so tight. Lisa lets him go grudgingly, whimpering—and then gasps.   

Dean’s eyes snap open.  Had he somehow hurt…?

But no.  It’s not him at all.  Turns out Ben had barely waited for Dean to move before diving in and securing his mother’s right nipple for himself.

“Gentle, baby!  You're too big! Mama’s a li’l…”  Lisa admonishes, rolling her eyes at Dean over her son’s head.  It’s the same, fondly exasperated _kids-what-can-you-do?_ look that Dean has seen parents use when their children get fussy in grocery stores or insist on candy at a gas station.  In his relaxed, pleasured state, he smiles back, lets himself imagine that he and Lisa are those parents.  That this is his bed.  That Ben is his precocious son, tenacious and demanding, a little too smart for his own good, like someone else Dean could name.  In his fantasy, it is easy to forget the condom he’s just peeled off.  Maybe he and Lisa are working on a sibling for Ben.  A brother, Dean decides muzzily. Someone to share her tits. His legs are still tangled with Lisa’s and Dean can feel her body start to respond to Ben's greedy mouth. _Mama’s a little sensitive_ , is what she would have said.  Because she must be, having Ben latch right on after all the attention Dean had paid to her breasts. Her hips twitch.  She’s still got Ben curled sleepily half-on her chest, so when she reaches for Dean, the most she can do is grab his hip, cup his ass-cheek.  Soon she’s grinding against his hard-muscled thigh and Dean turns into it, gives her more to ride.  She’s got one arm wrapped around a still-suckling Ben but her other hand grips Dean’s ass, squeezing to telegraph a question. Her fingers slip between his cheeks, find his hole.

 _Me first, then you,_ she’d said, the first time she’d called him baby. Dean wonders if he should pull away, deny that he does that sort of thing.  But he is feeling good and it’s been awhile since he let his guard down and indulged.  So he doesn’t say a word.  Lisa’s fingers are careful but sure, first circling, then pushing, and Dean finds himself pushing back, opening in a way that he hasn’t since the last time with Sam.

Now Lisa gets serious.  She buries her head in Ben’s dark hair, whispers something.  Dean hears a sleepy, whimpered protest and the Lisa is kissing the boy’s forehead, setting him into a nest of pillows.  Turning her attention to Dean.

“D’you…like that?  Can I…?” Lisa quirks her fingertip, the one in his ass, as though there could be any question when she means.

“Yuh,”  Dean’s voice is rough and thick.  In this quiet, dark room, in this nowhere town, knowing what he knows about Lisa and her son, he can have anything he wants.  He swallows, repeats.  “Yeah.  I want.  If it’s okay….”  His eyes cut to Ben, who is watching bright-eyed and pouting from a nest of pillows.

“Mmmm, it’s fine…”  Lisa kisses his shoulder, mouths her way down his back, “Like I said, we’re an open family.  I want him to know how good it can be.”  She’s touching him, her fingers and…and her mouth.  Dean almost pulls away.  He’s clean (college town, you never know….), but it’s still unexpected. There have been a few guys in truck stops.  A senior in a different Midwestern college, once, in the backseat of a car.  Dean hasn’t done this in a bed in ages. 

“Shh, let me.”  Lisa whispers. Her mouth.  Fingers, more fingers.  Dean’s eyelids flutter closed so he can concentrate better on her fingers opening him, on her grown-up mattress beneath his knees, her pretty coverlet soft beneath his cheek.   He hears a distant groan—his own voice—when she moves away for a moment.  The sound of a drawer opening, closing. Then she’s back. Tongue.  The cold kiss of lube. The last time, he remembers, had been in a rickety motel bed. Sam kept stopping, convinced that the whole motel could hear the creaking bedframe.  Dean remembers _begging_. Tonight, the only sound is Lisa’s whispering, sharing her secrets so he knows he can trust her.  “Ben’s getting curious…He’s always been old for his age,” she curls her finger and Dean feels his cock chub up as she finds his prostate.  He misses her next few sentences, focusing on breathing without moaning. “He’s started asking about men…how things feel…It’s always just been the two of us, and I think kids should learn at home…I can’t show him…  Are you ready?”

Dean almost doesn’t realize Lisa is talking to him until she repeats herself.  “Dean?  Dean—look at me.  Are you ready?  Do you want this?”

Dean is both lethargic with pleasure and tingling with anticipation.  He doesn’t want to talk, he wants to fuck.  Wants to be fucked.  Sammy had never had to ask: Sam had been able to read Dean’s mind.  But this time he turns his head, opens his eyes. Lisa is still wearing that plum-colored blouse, though it’s completely unbuttoned now.  And she’d had more than just lube in her bedside drawer: she’s wearing a harness with a thick, curved dildo that, by Dean’s estimation, is bigger than the college kid and at least two of his truck-stop buddies. It is banded by thick, textured ridges near the base. “Yeah,” his tongue feels thick in his mouth.  “Want it.”

Wanting and getting are two different things, and Dean feels himself tense involuntarily when Lisa settles behind him and the large head of her silicone dick starts to enter him.  She grips his hips, eases him through the first moment of penetration with sweet nothings that he won’t be able to remember later.  This part—opening, letting someone else in—is always intense.  Dean feels his toes curl as he sucks in a deep breath.   His fingers dig up handfuls of Lisa’s too-nice bedding.

“Go on, baby boy.  Let's have a kiss,” Lisa says, her voice just a little husky.  Dean remembers that strain, remembers how he’d had to hold back from just plowing right into Sam when it was his turn.  But he’s on his hands and knees and she’s only inches into him.  He can’t possibly reach her to…oh. 

Oh.  Ben!  She was talking to… Dean’s astonished to realize he’d been so involved in Lisa’s touches, in his memories of doing this with Sam, that he’d completely forgotten about Ben.  But this time, when he opens his eyes and his head comes off the mattress, the boy is _right there_ , kneeling on the mattress, watching Dean with clear, dark eyes full of curiosity. 

Lisa moves again (those relentless, child-breeding hips) and Dean’s mouth opens at the stretch.  Before any sound comes out, though, Ben follows his mother’s directions, diving in for a kiss.  Dean can’t move, not without pushing back to take an impossible amount of Lisa’s cock.  He can’t even untangle his fists from the bedclothes.  So there’s nothing for it except to moan into Ben’s sweet and gentle kiss.  All soft lips and a quick, wet little tongue. 

“Umm,” Dean manages finally, pulling away to breathe.  Ben kisses his cheek, his temple. 

“Do you,” the kid hesitates.  “Do you like it? Does it feel…?”

Dean doesn’t know if the boy means the kiss or Lisa’s slow-but-steady push.  It doesn’t matter.  The answer’s the same.  “Good,” Dean gasps as the head of Lisa’s dick nudges his prostate.  “Feels good.”

A shy smile on that round, innocent face.  “Okay. Again?”

Dean has the presence of mind to turn his head to Lisa, who is watching with hooded eyes.  Her hips are moving in tiny little pushes, just enough to make her heavy breasts bounce as she opens Dean with infinitesimal slowness.  She quirks one eyebrow.  “If he wants to.”

She doesn’t specify who _he_ is, and Ben leans in before Dean has even fully turned around, planting a kiss on his cheek before he can even reach his mouth.  Dean’s nose, the curve of his jaw, all get a few of Ben’s light little kisses.  Dean’s slutty ass is finally starting to get in on the game and he can’t help but rock back into Lisa’s slow thrusts.  He has a fistful of Ben's feathery, soft hair when he feels the first of the ridges toward the base of Lisa’s dildo.  He can’t possibly have taken so much of it already, but he has, he just opened up once he had Ben’s distracting little tongue in his mouth.  Lisa’s deep enough inside Dean now that he can feel her warm breasts on his back.  She kisses him, too, right behind his ear, as she strokes his belly, cups his half-hard cock from behind.  “There are three,” she whispers, right before she starts swiveling her hips to work the first ridge in. 

Three ridges. Dean is not prepared.  It’s big, it’s _big_ and he’s already so full and Lisa’s cock is wider than Sam’s and it’s too much. But now he has the opposite problem: if before, he couldn’t move away from Ben because of Lisa, now he can’t move away from Lisa because he’s still got Ben kneeling on the bed right in front of him.  The stretch makes him pant so much that he finally has to pull away from plundering Ben’s mouth. 

“Are you…?” Ben is flushed, a few tendrils of dark hair stuck sweatily to his forehead.  He’s gotten all hot and bothered just _kissing_. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean groans, “just.  Big.  Uhm.  Good,” he manages, because it is and because he doesn’t want to scare the kid.  Clumsily, he kisses Ben’s cheek, his ear, somehow ends up moaning into the warm skin where his neck joins his shoulder, where the football-patterned flannel pajama top gapes.  Lisa is working firm and steady and murmuring encouragement against his back.  But it’s Ben who knows to wrap his little arms around Dean’s neck and run his little hands through Dean’s hair and anchor him until Dean feels Lisa work another few inches into him.

“Good boy,” Lisa croons.  She and Ben both have their hands all over him: someone is petting his belly, fingering a nipple, dipping down to jack his cock, now fully blood-hard. “Two more? D’you want them?”

Five minutes ago, the answer would have been a firm “hell, no! Too much!”  But now Dean is flushed with endorphins and the sweet smell of Ben’s shampoo.  He feels open and ready and invincible. 

“Yeah.  Wannit all.”

Ben gives him an encouraging smile and slides down between Dean’s arms, laying flat on his back, leaning up to be kissed..

Just as well, because when Lisa renews her delicious corkscrew thrusts, Dean needs to keep his hands planted to keep from sliding all over the bed. Somehow Ben’s little pajama top has come unbuttoned and he squirms to get Dean’s open mouthed kisses where he wants them.  His bony chest, his soft belly.  He smells like soap and warm flannel and he giggles at the rasp Dean’s stubble.  As Lisa eases in the second ridge, Dean loses himself a little. It’s so deep and so good—she’s just rolling right over his prostate.   Disoriented, he wonders about Ben’s hands.  They’ve been carding through his hair and now they’re gone…

He feels the boy writhing under him and tries to shift. He's still supporting most of his weight on his knees; is he too heavy on Ben's slender body? “One more, baby,” Lisa croons, thinking he’s trying to pull away. 

“Can he, Mama?  Like John?”

Hearing his father’s name, Dean fights to focus on something other than the glorious pressure in his ass.  Ben has his thumbs in the waistband of his pajama pants; he’s looking over Dean’s shoulder to where his mother—fuck, fuck, that thought makes Dean throb—is mouthing along Dean’s spine.

“You gotta ask, baby,” Lisa says between kisses, her voice fond.  “Remember?  How we talked about permission? Just ‘cause John liked it doesn’t mean Dean will.”

A filthy little part of Dean has always gotten off on being objectified—hell, he _knows_ what he looks like.  And something about the two of them, mother and son, talking like he’s not even here…

Still, when Ben’s gaze shift to Dean and he asks if Dean will “Uhm, please?  With your mouth?”  Dean has to pause for a minute. It’s not even Ben’s age that worries him at this point.  After all, he can’t get much more parental permission than he’s current got, and it’s clear that Ben’s as curious as Lisa said he was.  There's already been someone else, someone named John. No one’s forcing anyone.  Better here than the back room of a pool hall. It’s just…Dean barely goes above the waist with guys he meets at truck stops.  That one college kid has basically thrown himself on Dean’s dick, but hadn’t expected Dean to reciprocate.  So...not since Sam.

“It’s his new favorite thing,” Lisa breathes into Dean’s ear.  Like they’re talking about a new matchbox car or something.  (Do kids these days even play with matchbox cars?).  “But you don’t have to.  ‘Less it’ll help you relax.  So _tight_ , baby!”’

She moves her hips, circling the dildo inside, to emphasize her point, and Dean moans.  The sweet flash of hope he sees on Ben’s face when he opens his mouth seals the deal.  He can’t disappoint the kid now. 

“C’mon, then,” he says, voice rough.  Lisa nuzzles his neck and eases into a slow, barely-there roll.  Her way of saying _thank you_ , Dean supposes.  Ben looks up at him, face flushed, his big eyes  suddenly shy.  Dean’s arms are starting to ache, so he settles onto his elbows, huffing out a breath as the new angle opens his hips.  Now he’s close enough to see Ben has very faint freckles.  Dean kisses one on his shoulder, another next to his flat little nipple.  Ben’s got Lisa’s dark coloring; the freckles must come from his father.  Dean licks his way down Ben’s torso imagining Lisa getting fucked pregnant.  When he gets to the waistband on Ben’s pajama pants, he hesitates.

But Ben doesn’t, hastily shoving his clothing down.  He’s small and bare and soft, of course.  His whole body shakes, though, when Dean kisses his little foreskin.  He glances up at Ben’s rapt face.  A lick. Another glance.  More tongue.  Dean feels a little hand in his hair, guiding him to take more.  His favorite thing, Lisa had said, and he’s certainly acting like he’s in for a treat. 

When Dean takes the whole tiny dick into his mouth, Ben nearly levitates off the bed. Dean wraps big hands wrapped around Ben’s narrow waist and suckles, gentle as he’d sucked on Lisa’s nipples. 

Dean pulls off, slowly. Finishes with a kiss to Ben’s thigh.

“Whaddaya say, baby?” Lisa is starting to work her way into Dean again.

“Oh, please, oh please,” the boy is panting, so quickly and quietly that Dean can barely make it out.  He’s begging and moaning, plastering himself against Dean at the same time that Lisa eases the last ridge into his ass.

Dean presses his face against Ben’s flat belly, shaking and overheated and trying to breathe into the stretch.  Fuck.  Oooh, fuck.  He needs…he needs.  Something in his mouth. Moaning around Ben’s little cock.   Ben’s soft but swollen, thick on Dean's tongue. He feels Ben’s slim little body twisting and spasming beneath him, remembers how Sammy had cum dry once, shouting in Dean’s arms.

Ben is kissing him, now, little knees hitched around Dean’s ribs, a small but experienced hand on his cock, which bounces as he fucks himself shamelessly on the length of Lisa's magnificent dildo. 

Lisa is praising him, panting something as her hips pump against his ass.

“Wha..?” gasps Dean.

And mother and son speak together: “Come on, baby…”

And Dean does.

**Author's Note:**

> The original prompter chose not to specify the gender of either Dean's partner or the child. The prompt is so old I don't know how to track down the OP; I guess I'll go with Ben in chapter 2, but I could see it going either way, so comment with what you think fits best.
> 
> Yes, the title is from The Ronettes's song "Be My Baby" that was playing at the college bar (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZV5tgZlTEkQ)


End file.
